


A Beautiful Monstrosity

by jadzeanna



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Cancer, Cardassian Book Club, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxicated Sex, M/M, Reckless Behavior, So much angst, Substance Abuse, idk if I want to call it dubcon because it's otherwise very consensual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadzeanna/pseuds/jadzeanna
Summary: Julian Bashir would never be anything but terminal.He was no oncologist, but he knew enough to know his case is beyond the Federation’s capacity to treat. There’s just one thing he wants before he dies – to finally figure out where he stands with the man he’s been ambiguously flirting with for years.[posted for Evil Author's Day 2020; will probably never be finished]
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. for the rest of my life

**Author's Note:**

> Published 15 Feb 2020: I just learned about Evil Author's Day, which is about posting a work you don't intend to finish. I wrote the first portion of this story in the summer and fall of 2017, then moved on to happier things. Posted as-is without intention to update. 
> 
> This is set shortly after "Distant Voices", but has spoilers through "Doctor Bashir, I Presume". 
> 
> All titles and lyrics are from the album CollXtion I by Allie X; each chapter corresponds to one song. The origin story of this is that I listened to "Prime" on repeat for a week straight and ended up with this hailstorm of angst.

_it’s like you knew_  
_and you came out_  
_out of nowhere and into my life_  
_it took you a while_  
_but you found me_  
_now I’m sure that I’m gonna survive_

Julian Bashir would never be anything but terminal.

He had been tracking the tumor for nearly a week now and it was growing incredibly fast for a glioma, incredibly fast for a tumor in a 30-year-old, and appeared to have already begun to metastasize into other parts of his central nervous system. All this was continuing despite taking the strongest safe dose of antiproliferatives.

If he lived a comfortably normal life he had two, maybe three months at this rate. He could extend it to six months to a year with aggressive chemotherapy and surgery, but it wouldn’t be much of a life. Chemotherapy would make him feel sicker than the cancer ever would, and the possibility of surgery was even more daunting.

Normally, regular treatments worked and surgery was almost never necessary, so the technique was relatively crude and unrefined. Given the tumor’s location by the prefrontal cortex, surgical excision would likely affect his mind and make it so he couldn’t recognize himself. It was just a few weeks ago that he had been pressured to replace the brain of a patient with a positronic net. He had watched the vedek’s bright future fade as he became a hollow shell of his normal self, practically a robot. Bashir had protested every step along the way, wishing to save his patient from a fate worse than death. Lobotomy belonged in the dark ages, where humanity had left it.

But his life, at least, was his choice, and Bashir would never sacrifice the only real brain he would ever have, not to save his own life. No, his fate was written on the scan results. After everything he’d gone through and survived, it was a small mass of misbehaving glial cells that was going to end Dr. Bashir’s illustrious and tragically brief career.

He looked at the scan again, looked back at last week’s scan, back to the present one. Something was definitely wrong. The cells were too morphologically predictable, the mass was too even, and it was still there when no other cancer would be. But the olfactory hallucinations were real, the headaches were real, and the tumor was real. The Federation had cured cancer nearly two centuries ago, and he was going above and beyond the normal course of treatment, so what was the unwelcome mass still even doing in his brain?

He knew, of course. He’d seen case studies in a survey of unofficial medical techniques. He remembered snippets from history classes. And the tumor which was so resiliently growing in his brain was regrettably familiar, and very curable.

Except… except. The cure was worse than the disease. He could live a long, healthy life, but he would lose everything he built for himself. It would be a living death, and Bashir knew he could never stomach mediocrity. That life would be torture – decades, maybe a century as a shell of his former self, wondering “what could have been” and scraping out a meager existence but never anything more. It was infinitely preferable to let the people around him wonder what could have been, and to live his last days as the man he was.

He would rather die than be exposed as a fraud.

* * *

Quark was the first to notice.

Normally when people act with a sudden, insatiable craving for enjoyment, their life is about to dramatically change. The bachelor party mindset, he fondly called it. Someone who doesn’t look forward to the future is brilliantly extravagant in the present. And the station’s young doctor was certainly being hedonistic. He’d gone on thrilling virtual adventures across the galaxy, consumed several bottles of Quark’s best liquors, spent an admirable sum at the dabo tables, and even bedded yet another of his dabo girls. He had reservations in Holosuite 2 nearly every night for the next month. The doctor’s reputation was always heavy on the so-called pleasures of the flesh, but he hadn’t been this overly enthusiastic to live it up since he first arrived on the station.

Desperate people make the best customers. If it wasn’t a rule of acquisition, it should be. So, Quark wouldn’t think too much of it, except… Life on Deep Space Nine was always dangerous, and the away missions Bashir loved were frequently high risk. For any of the senior staff to react like this, it had to be something particularly bad. They might be in a lot of trouble soon. Imminent attack or invasion by the Dominion was the obvious threat, but Quark’s intuition insisted otherwise, and his intuition had yet to lead him astray.

It was hardly two months since the Defiant returned from the Founders’ homeworld. Trustworthy rumors said the Dominion determined the Federation to be too willing to fight back against a perceived invasion. They wouldn’t change their mind so quickly, and certainly not with a strategy so brazen that the station’s staff would have caught on. But when Dr. Bashir of all people noticed these plots it was never via the senior staff, was it? No, it was the Cardassian tailor who would be pulling the strings in any scheme the doctor was involved in, Quark was sure of it.

That implies there even is a plot, he told himself. It wouldn’t make sense for there to be one in the first place. More likely, his erratic behavior was innocuous. Perhaps the doctor is just trying on a new role, having a mid-life crisis of sorts as humans are wont to do.

* * *

Dax knew it wasn’t a mid-life crisis. She had her own fair share of those—three, to be exact—and Julian’s recent behavior did not fit that role. Tobin’s mid-life crisis was similarly wild, but it was explorational. He had met new people and pursued women, took up gambling, tried new cuisines. Curzon, meanwhile, had become introspective and withdrawn, started reading and painting more. All of them had been exploring personalities and lifestyles that weren’t theirs before or after.

But Julian was Julian. When she met him for their usual replimat dinner later that week, he went on as usual about anything and everything, but conspicuously avoided saying anything about himself.

As they got up to leave, she decided to ask, “Julian, you’ve been acting strange lately. I’m worried about you. What’s going on?”

He didn’t want to let anyone know because they’d just try to get him to leave his duties and maybe even go visit his parents (ew), but he was a bad liar, and Dax of all people would see right through him.

“I’m… sick.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and looked at the floor.

Jadzia looked at him quizzically for a moment, then took a sharp breath as her eyes widened in understanding.

“You’re dying.”

“Yeah, probably.” They sat in silence for a minute before Julian started to panic. “Don’t tell anyone, of course, there’s still a lot more I can do and want to try, and I’ve got a fair chunk of time left.”

“If you let Sisko know you can get more latitude in how you spend your time, and possibly go seek expert treatment.”

“I know.” He sighed in frustration. He wasn’t stupid, wasn’t even that stubborn usually. But he hated being on the other end of the tricorder. “Frankly… It’s embarrassing. I’m more than capable of managing my own medical care, and would much rather that than be poked and prodded by strangers who don’t even know what they’re looking for.” _Or who might know all too well just what it is that they find_.

“I know how you feel. It’s scary to know you’re dying and not trust people to help. But you really should.” Jadzia called the turbolift and paused to consider her words. “It’s your life. Just don’t throw it away out of pride.”

That hit closer to home than she knew. “I’m not,” Julian grumbled, but offered no further explanation. They rode the turbolift to the habitat ring in a tense silence. When it stopped and they stepped off, she put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length.

“I care about you a lot, you know,” she offered. It wasn’t an apology, but it was something.

“I know,” he retorted with a slight sigh.

Julian looked up to meet her eyes, and Jadzia saw a mixture of longing and sadness in his. He had chased her with the innocence and incorrigibility of a puppy once, but not for some time now. _I love you,_ his eyes told her. But it wasn’t the hopeless idealization he’d once incessantly peddled to her. He offered Jadzia a hug, tight and shaking. He cared about her, deeply and earnestly. And she cared about him as well. They both knew it. The idea of an apology crossed her mind, but she nixed it in favor of a more even-handed show of sympathy. As she pulled away from the hug, she leaned in and gently kissed his cheek, then cordially patted his shoulder and wished him good night. He smiled as they parted ways.

* * *

When he returned to his room and showered before bed, Julian found himself reminiscing about his relationship with the inimitable Jadzia Dax. When he first came to the station, he had been young and naïve, too clever for his own good but also unbearably foolish. He’d fallen for her clean lines marked by smooth brown spots, for the idea of her intelligence and confidence. She was so competent it sometimes terrified him, but it was addictive. She had challenged him, and he adored her for it.

But she wasn’t for him. He was an annoying younger brother to her, and she wore her heart on her sleeve too much for him (too similarly to him, too, if he was honest). His romantic admiration of her had faded as their knowledge of each other grew.

If Julian were looking for love, though, she wasn’t quite the only one who supplied that intoxicating combination of wit and capability, who knew how to make his mind and heart feel alive. And unlike her, Elim Garak had enough persistent mystery that even after three years Julian Bashir’s curiosity was far from satisfied.

He smiled to himself as he toweled off and changed into pajamas. At a superficial level, the spy-cum-tailor made no sense whatsoever as a romantic prospect. Bashir vastly preferred women, generally tall and with lithe frames. Garak wasn’t any of those, but he moved with his own melodic grace, and his features had over the years become beautiful to the doctor. He supposed he also tended to choose people who stroked his intellectual ego. Submissive types, as Jadzia had so disconcertingly described his fantasy version of her. They were safe. Garak was neither, but it never actually mattered, because he had shown Julian that conversation was far more enjoyable when he didn’t outshine his partner quite so drastically (or at all). It was exciting, unpredictable to spend time with the man, and Julian was absolutely certain he wanted more.

Garak was still dangerous, could do too much damage to the pieces Julian was trying to salvage of his life and legacy. But oh, how he was tempting.

Julian wondered how his relationship with Garak might have developed, if only they had more time. As he settled into bed, he remembered the times they had spent together. His flustered confusion and embarrassing excitement when Garak first introduced himself. His gradual acceptance of the man’s mystery, and moments of insight into his character. Their literature debates, always a little too aggressive to be merely friendly. And the times they’d faced disaster together.

He had been afraid for his friend’s life when Garak suddenly fell ill from his malfunctioning implant. Being kept out, even pushed away, felt like a personal affront, and he knew he pushed too hard but that was fine, it was necessary. He had been honored when Garak, in rehab, asked for his forgiveness, but it also drove him crazy in more than a professional regard that he couldn’t help the man. He tracked down Tain not because it was his duty, but because if Garak died so would a part of him.

Then, hardly two months later, he’d seen Garak die, saving their lives. A sweet, caring quip was the last thing that would ever come out of those grey lips that he suddenly realized he so desperately wanted to hear more from. And when, released from the infernal simulation, they returned to the station and Garak was alive, chufa tinged with blue and so very beautiful, hearing a hello from those lips wasn’t nearly enough. Julian wanted amicable banter and soft whispers and tender kisses and most of all he wanted vitality, affirmations of life. He wanted to feel Garak’s pulse under his fingertips, listen to the staccato swing-step of systole and diastole juxtaposed to the quiet, slow rasp of his breath. The orchestra of someone’s life force was the most beautiful music he had ever known.

Julian wanted to affirm his own life as well. He wanted to feel himself respond in someone else’s touch, to trust someone with his life force in turn. He wanted heat and passion, wanted to lose control of his pulse and respiration. He wanted to share that with Garak, to cloak his last days in a haze of passion and longing and sensation.

He wanted to feel desperate, needy.

Alive.

 _While you still are,_ the spoilsport voice in his head whispered to him, causing his bittersweet fantasies to careen into anxiety.

He was desperate and needy, just not in the way he wanted to be. For the first time since his discovery of the tumor, Julian was attempting to sleep both sober and alone. It was not a pleasant feeling, and he felt anguish weigh on him, the soreness in his throat and tightness in his chest that might have been tears if he weren’t also so damn embarrassed and guarded. He cursed himself, and drew his blanket tighter to his chest. He half considered the bottle of gin he had stowed away in a cupboard in his living room, but he knew alcohol would at best numb his current aching heart, and at worst amplify it. He also half considered replicating himself a mild sedative – after all, it wasn’t like he’d live long enough to suffer the effects of dependence even with daily use – but ultimately decided on his usual remedy, which involved Kukalaka and a steaming mug of milk with honey.

Julian padded over to his personal replicator, picking his favorite stuffed bear off the shelf on the way. He curled into a chair, milk in hand. The familiar late-night ritual calmed him somewhat, and gradually his thoughts returned to Garak.

What might have happened between them, were Julian not about to die?

What even was in the man’s head? Garak was a lot of things, including a compulsive liar and a master at sending mixed signals. Julian savored memories of overly intellectual arguments leaned into with just a little too much enthusiasm, of obviously stolen glances both of and by the former spy, of the cool strength he felt in the other man on the rare occasions they had any physical contact. But as with anything else about Garak, it was impossible to know what he really meant, what he really wanted. That’s why he was so interesting, why he’d kept Julian’s interest even after years.

But what was his endgame? What did he want, all this time? Julian certainly wanted to see him at a loss for words, wanted to see him lose his impeccable composure for a reason that has nothing to do with withdrawal or sorrow. He had always accepted that they were playing the long game, but now he wouldn’t have time to figure out where it ended. He might not even have time to figure out where he would have wanted it to end – not that it was any use worrying about it now.

He felt affection toward his enigmatic friend, despite – or perhaps because of – his efforts to keep him at arm’s length. Every time he tried to build a wall of distrust between them, Garak disarmed him with as little as a look. And by now, after nearly three years, Julian finally understood that he had been in over his head the whole time. He was always trying to resist the magnetic pull of what he hoped was just curiosity, and now for the first time he had a compelling reason not to resist it.

Julian tried to silence the voice in his head that was telling him _there’s no way he could be interested in you_. He knew in reality Cardassians tended to be xenophobic and at best he would be seen on par with the “comfort women” of the Bajoran occupation. And he knew that wasn’t what he wanted. A fling was one thing, but being used was another. And if he’d even been reading the man’s signals right at all and Garak really was interested in him, there was a chance he’d find himself discarded as soon as his “friend” got what he wanted out of him. And then rather than quiet regret he’d be actively miserable for the last of his days, which just wouldn’t do. Lonely and sad was a far better fate than hollow and used. It was better this way, that he protect the memories of what they certainly did have, keep it bittersweet rather than let it become sour.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t fantasize.

He slowly fell asleep to dreams of cool grey scales and expressive blue eyes.


	2. tighten up the tourniquet

_all I needed was the medicine_  
_and you came knocking like a doctor_  
_gave me the pill to take away the poison_  
_erase the writing on the wall_

Garak was late for lunch, which was the _one_ thing Bashir had been looking forward to for the past three days.

Julian was three drinks in. Sure, the replimat only served synthehol. He would be perfectly sober by his afternoon shift, but now he _wanted_ to feel intoxicated, so he was. It was easier to let himself float, numb, than to count the minutes and seconds since Garak was supposed to show up, and try not to let himself fall back into the familiar patterns of overthinking and wondering and wishing something would _finally_ come out of this non-flirtation they’d been playing at for three years.

Nothing would come out of that lunch.

* * *

Garak had noticed little bits and pieces over the past week. Bashir had become a regular at Quark’s, where his womanizing was undeniably more blatant than normal. He was really focused the rest of the time, obsessing over his work until late in the night, when he would head back out to the bar. He was one of the senior staff of the station, so of course everyone talked. And Garak had a personal stake as well. He cared deeply for the young doctor, in a way he had never before allowed himself to become attached to someone. It’s good he didn’t have any of his old kind of ‘work’ to do, because sentiment would definitely get in the way of it where the young doctor was involved.

Garak arrived fifteen minutes late to their lunch date, only to see his closest friend on the station — because that’s all he could claim from the beautiful young doctor — looking rather frazzled, despite his polished outward appearance. His eyes betrayed an anguish that he tried and failed to hide behind a smile and a playful “Hello, Garak. What’s been holding you up, cat got your seam ripper?”

“However did you know? Mind you, it was a Caitian lieutenant requesting a suit for her son’s coming of age ceremony, and she rather _aggressively_ tried to punctuate an argument with my interfacing fuser, but I was eventually able to make her listen to reason.”

“I’ve only met one Caitian, but from what I hear they can be quite a… catty people.” Julian’s voice was slow, deliberate, as he gestured aimlessly with the hand holding his drink that he miraculously didn’t spill.

Garak’s mouth formed the slightest hint of a smile. “You have no idea. I’m quite grateful they’re not more common in this sector. You would not believe how difficult it is to find a lining material that doesn’t muss their fur.”

Julian leaned forward slightly, and with a great deal less amusement than he normally harbored. He pondered what to say for a moment, and brushed most ideas aside immediately. _It’s still no excuse to be late. I thought I mattered to you._ “I couldn’t care less what musses their fur, but you’re certainly _mussing_ mine. I’d been looking forward to hearing your opinions on Crime and Punishment all week, but now my lunch break is basically over, and you just launch right into another of your elaborate stories without even an apology!”

“I’m sorry, doctor, I-”

“You have more _important_ things to do with your time. I understand.” Julian pushed up from the table and began to walk away, long legs carrying him so fast that Garak had to jog slightly to catch up. Julian was fully aware that he was acting childish, but he was feeling downright petulant that day.

He stopped walking when he felt Garak’s hand on his shoulder, and spun around to glare into his eyes. His hands tightened into fists at his sides and he knew it wasn’t Garak who deserved his anger, but he wasn’t getting what he desperately wanted from him, what had kept him up the past several nights. And he couldn’t tell the truth and he couldn’t stand to sit there and pretend to be civil for another minute when he was _dying_ and didn’t have _time_ for those games anymore.

“Doctor, if I may?”

“You’re going to say it anyway.”

“You have been acting very strangely for quite some time now. This present outburst notwithstanding, you’ve been, shall I say, withdrawn. I admit, I was wrong to let my work make me so late, and I’m sorry. But there’s more than that on your mind.”

“It’s fine, really. I’m just… Tired, alright?” Those eyes, normally bright, seemed so old in that moment. “Maybe Altovar was right. Maybe I don’t really belong here.”

“Now, that’s just ridiculous. Where would this station be without you?”

Julian laughed to himself, a dark and mirthless sound that made the back of Garak’s neck tingle. “You probably don’t remember too clearly, but during your incident with the wire you told me this station was hell for you. Did you ever consider that maybe it’s hell for me as well? People respect me professionally, just as much as they have to, and then I’m just stupid annoying Julian, a pest to be avoided. I don’t belong here, Garak, any more than you do, and I hate it here and I want _out_. I don’t enjoy ‘looking into _your_ smug, sanctimonious face’ any more than you do mine, so cut the crap.” Julian yanked his shoulder away from the hand which had long since loosened its grip. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have an infirmary to run.”

Julian rushed to begin his afternoon shift early, willing his mind clear from the intoxication of the synthehol and from the panic he’d felt at confronting Garak. The man was right there, and had even touched him, a gesture of concern in both their species. And he couldn’t handle it. He desperately needed to maintain his walls, his sanity. So, he responded with anger, the best he could. Twisted Garak’s concern against him, tried to give the infernal lizard a taste of his own medicine. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t will away the pang of regret he felt every time he had to push someone he loved away.

Garak tasted the air while Julian spoke, and smelled the acrid tang of human fear, mixed with a warm note he couldn’t quite identify but that, strangely, almost inspired admiration rather than pity. As he walked away, he knew one thing for certain: Julian’s story was a lie. His heart broke from the rejection, but simultaneously swelled with pride. The good doctor had learned something from him after all.

Garak’s next job was to figure out what it is he was hiding.

* * *

Garak didn’t expect Julian to visit his quarters that evening. He'd thought about the man all day, while poking through databases and personal logs and while hemming pants and cutting cloth. And he found nothing. Julian had taken a few days off for a bad cold the previous week, but there was nothing particularly unusual in that.

Garak was drinking some kanar and reading before bed, and when the door chimed he didn’t think twice before inviting in his visitor. He’d prepared a half dozen excuses for the irritable and demanding Caitian lieutenant before he saw Dr. Bashir’s face. The good doctor’s hair was a mess, uniform rumpled, eyes bloodshot. He leaned on the door frame and looked at Garak with pathetically sad, wide eyes. “Good evening, Garak.”

Garak took one look at him, then put his padd and kanar on a nearby table and stood up. “Good evening, doctor.” He raised an orbital ridge and angled his head slightly as he walked to the door. He might as well have screamed the unspoken question he didn’t dare voice.

“Can I – can we talk? I couldn’t sleep.”

“Of course. Do come in. Have a seat.” Garak offered Bashir his arm, which he refused and unsteadily walked a couple of meters to the couch. Garak followed him carefully to make sure he didn’t collapse, then walked to his personal replicator. “Tarkelian tea?”

“Please.”

Garak brought him the tea and sat in the armchair across from Julian where he had initially been sitting. He tilted his head at the doctor, giving him a chance to speak. Julian let the heat from the tea seep into his hands, steeling his resolve and attempting to put words together. Suddenly, in Garak’s presence, Julian felt the heat of a spotlight in his cheeks.

“I’m sorry about, ah, lunch.”

Garak twisted the kanar glass around in his hands, probing Julian with his eyes before he replied, “you have seemed quite upset. Do you want to talk about it?”

In reality, talking was the last thing on Julian’s mind. Garak was wearing only a robe, his hair wet from a shower, exposed bits of silvery skin on his neck and legs glistening. Julian wanted nothing more than to ravish the beautiful, enigmatic man he'd lusted after for years. To place kisses and hands all over his body and to be wanted in return. But he knew Garak would only pity him at best, and Julian would just feel sick and disgusted come morning. He wanted to love the man, not use him. That said, a little “Cardassian affection” — conversation, that is — would be an acceptable consolation prize. Julian smiled softly into his tea. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

Garak sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “So, what brings you to my quarters?”

 _I’ve been beating myself up over how I reacted at lunch. I can’t stop thinking about you._ “I couldn’t sleep,” Julian finally managed.

“What’s on your mind?”

_All the horrible, wonderful things I’d do to you._

“I’m…” Julian moistened his lips with his tongue, hoping his racing heart wouldn’t give him away, hoping his intoxicated brain and poor self-control wouldn’t give him away. “I… don’t want to talk about it. What… What are you reading?”

Garak tapped the screen a few times, then showed Julian the cover page of the book. “ _In Shadow, Unto Light_. It’s a Hebitian tragic play that I was planning to suggest to you at lunch.” Maybe he’d read it, then. Sometimes a little tragedy is good. He can get catharsis through Garak's literature suggestions if not in his bed. “It’s very human in a lot of ways, much like how _Crime and Punishment_ was very Cardassian. I never did tell you how much I enjoyed that, by the way.”

“I thought you would.”

“It’s a shame Dostoyevsky ruined such a promising book with such a frivolous conclusion.”

“No, you’re not—you’re missing the point, as usual. His psychological struggle in the novel was meant to destroy him specifically so it could redeem him.” Julian’s head was spinning, and he wasn’t quite sure how to phrase what he wanted to say. He really did have a lot to drink. But he had to keep arguing, had to keep Garak from getting bored with him.

“This human obsession with redemption is something I’ll never understand. One simply is their past experiences. There isn’t any difference. In this book, for instance—” Garak gestured to the padd, then leaned forward to hand it to Julian. ”Well, I should let you read it first. Not to mention, you’re clearly in no state for a literary discussion.”

 _But I want to talk to you_ , Julian whined to himself. “Tell me about the book at least, then.”

“It’s a romance, not unlike your _Romeo and Juliet_ in form, if not in content. There’s-“

“A Cardassian romance? You’re kidding.”

“It’s from the Third Hebitian era, nearly a thousand years ago. My people were more… _frivolous_ back then, and the literature of the period reflects it. Society was, shall we say, falling apart. Tragic literature was very popular at the time, and survives as a reminder of the futility of defying the natural order of things.”

“What sort of ‘natural order of things’ do you mean?”

“Lots of things. Service to the state, obedience to societal expectations. In this case, dedication to one’s family is the main theme, in the form of not just devotion to one’s spouse and children, but also assurance that a partnership is, in fact, fruitful.”

“So does that mean your people would find it distasteful if…”

Their eyes met. Julian was absolutely certain this was disgustingly brazen, but he needed to know. His voice lowered to a husky murmur that he hoped was flirtatious. “If a man were to love another man?”

Garak’s neck ridges darkened somewhat, but he was smirking, the infernal lizard. Julian blushed in kind, and proceeded to carefully study the rug that separated them. After a long moment, he peeked up to see Garak staring at him, studying his face with the same careful attention that Julian had been paying to the geometric patterns of the carpet.

Julian felt his blush deepen. He’d come here for this, but now he just gave himself away. That’s not how the game is played. He’d have to cover his tracks, reestablish plausible deniability.

“I mean like, it sounds a lot like the ancient Roman period of my people that ended something like two thousand years ago. There was a lot of extravagance among the rich, and a lot of men were involved with other men and their social gatherings got to be shameless and sexual and like, it was seen as being hugely immoral and contributing to the decline of society. Not that I personally feel that way, but in a lot of works of succeeding centuries it was seen as a crime against God to be in a relationship that wasn’t, well, as you said – fruitful.”

Luckily, Garak decided to spare Julian from his own babbling with a chuckle. “That’s actually a very similar viewpoint to this work. Although the emphasis is on the danger of letting an obsessive affair take priority over ones duty to the state, more so than the homosexual nature of the affair in question.”

Julian could feel Garak’s eyes boring into him, and adrenaline coursing through his own veins at the subtext of their conversation, which floated between them, along with the tart floral aroma of his tea, and the fruity, smoky kanar, and another subtler scent that was uniquely and undeniably Garak, that Julian wanted to drown himself in. Moments, perhaps minutes passed in silence while Julian tried to weigh his options to reply to that. While he tried to talk his midbrain out of making a move that Garak definitely had _not_ endorsed.

“I should go.”

The words slipped out as a quiet mumble, directed mainly at Julian’s conscience. If he left now, he might avoid making a fool of himself, might avoid acting on the craving for his friend that was so much worse now that he was drunk and alone with him at night. What he would give to have another chance at their earlier encounter in the replimat, and enjoy Garak’s company while harboring presence of mind! He curled into the armrest of Garak’s couch, holding his tea in both hands like an amulet. He knew he should leave, but was desperately trying to find an excuse not to.

“You’re welcome to stay.”

A small noise came out of Julian’s throat, but any hope of forming words left him when he felt the indentation of Garak silently sitting next to him on the couch. There was still a good amount of space between them, so his privacy wasn’t directly intruded, but it was still an invitation. Julian took another sip of tea, then returned the mug to the side table and scooted closer to rest his head on Garak’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure precisely what that gesture meant, but the slight quickening of Garak’s breathing indicated he had guessed correctly that it was a somewhat intimate gesture. It was certainly intimate on Julian’s end. Garak’s shoulder was warm under his cheek, and that indescribable unique smell of Garak filled his senses and made his head spin even more than it already was. He felt the distinct impression that in that moment, he was exactly where he belonged.

“I don’t want to go.”

The words came out in a whisper before he could stop them.

“Then don’t,” Garak breathed, and instinctively raised his hand to stroke Julian’s hair.

Julian’s head lifted to look Garak in the eye. They were sitting so close that their hips were touching, their faces inches apart. He could feel breath rush out of Garak’s still open mouth. He was so close, and who’s to say how the game is played anyway?

Garak’s arm snaked around Julian’s waist, and then they were kissing and it was warm and soft and tender and exactly what both of them needed. Julian knew it was stupid and he’d regret not knowing what exactly their relationship was beforehand. Was this a romantic gesture? A sexual one? A friendly comfort? He knew he’d wanted to kiss Garak like this for as long as he’d known the man, and was past the point of denying himself, especially when he deepened the kiss and Garak made a little growling noise that sent shivers down Julian’s spine.

Julian made a small needy whine in return, and pushed himself forward. One hand reached to pull Garak closer to him by the shoulder; the other tangled in his damp hair. Sweet kisses were nice, but he needed heat, needed to drown himself in the smooth softness of Garak’s lips, and skin, and _everything_. Needed to make Garak feel, make him come undone with desire and sensation and adoration. He wanted to fuck. Needed Garak to make him forget his own name.

And he was so close to actually achieving it, too. He’d never thought he’d be able to take Garak to bed, even for all the nights he stayed up dreaming, wondering what the man’s scales would look and feel like, and now he could just stroke them, could just kiss his way to Garak’s ear, and down his neck, and feel Garak hold him tighter, hear his breath catch and come out shakily when he grabbed the largest scale on the neck ridge in his teeth and gently sucked.

Then Garak pushed him away to whines and protests because he wasn’t done, he wanted _so_ much more from him. Their eyes met, and Garak cupped Julian’s face with the hand that wasn’t still on his waist. Julian tried to pull Garak’s face back to his, but was pushed back again. Garak’s eyes were searching, asking a question that Julian didn’t understand. Not that he understood much – he felt like he was floating, caught in the crossroads of joy at finally, finally getting to kiss Garak, but also the pain of wanting and not having, craving so much more.

“Are you alright?” Garak asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Fantastic, thanks,” Julian murmured, and tried to resume kissing again, only to yet again be pushed away.

“Doctor…”

Julian pouted at this. “My _name_ is Julian. _Elim.”_ Garak cringed slightly at the use of his given name, but didn’t say anything. Julian hoped it was just that he was unaccustomed to being called that, and not that he’d unknowingly crossed a line. He made a note to ask later.

“Julian. Dear. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Nope, I’ll have you know my thoughts are _very_ gay at the moment,” he joked, stupid, wide, brilliant grin on his face, then tried to lean in for a kiss again, only to yet again be stymied.

“ _Julian_.”

He screwed his face in a pout he sincerely hoped was sufficiently irresistible. “Hmm?”

It appeared to work, because Garak took several beats to resume his train of thought, and when he did his face was pained, looking away. “You’re not thinking clearly. You… don’t really want this.”

Julian sighed in impatient annoyance. “I know what I want, and I want _you_. I’ve wanted you for ages.”

“Oh, my dear… Julian. How I wish I could believe that.”

“You can. Believe it.”

“You want a lot of things, doctor. There’s always a young ensign or Dabo girl you’re inviting to your bed, and I’m sure you’d much rather be spending your time with some pretty young lady. I don’t want your pity.”

“My what?” Julian jerked back, stunned. He lifted Garak’s chin, forcing the other man to look him in the eyes. “Garak. You think this is _pity?_ I came to you. I don’t want ‘some pretty young lady’. I want you, Garak. I want _you_.”

Garak didn’t want to believe it, knew it was too good to be true, but what could he really say to that? So he let the beautiful young doctor swing a leg over to sit on his lap, let him kiss him with the sort of hunger and fervor he’d never even dared to dream of, let him nip and suck at his jaw and neck. Let himself feel everything, and crave so much more, crave the doctor’s love and devotion with the same self-destructive intensity that destroyed Gul Rokat of _In Darkness, Unto Light_. He let Julian’s name slip from his lips, and Julian replied, “ _Elim_ ,” like it was a gift, a thing of beauty. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“Can we,” Julian said between kisses and panting breaths, “go to bed?”

A voice somewhere in the back of Garak’s head screamed at him to say no. But he hadn’t been touched like this in years, and he’d craved Julian since the day they met, and if he rejected him now, well, second chances were few and far between. And besides, Julian was so warm. He tasted like salt and honey and heaven, and had caught on to the sensitivity of Garak’s neck ridges, which he was rubbing gently, not strongly enough to be satisfying, but with enough promise to let Garak clearly see an imminent future in which he would push Julian to the ground and sink his teeth into the human’s delicate neck. He felt himself begin to evert at the thought, and knew he could never say no to Julian.

* * *

Julian whined when Garak pushed him off of him, but his annoyance turned to excitement when Garak stood up and kissed him, threading their hands together and then breaking the kiss and tugging Julian gently toward the bedroom. Julian unzipped his jacket with his other hand, and bit back a gasp when his fingers brushed against the front of his pants on the way. He dropped Garak’s hand to take off the uniform jacket and toss it into a corner, leaving himself in the lavender turtleneck and trousers.

He turned to see Garak, half a meter away, staring at him with a hungry intensity he’d never seen before. _Might as well give him a show,_ he thought as he shimmied out of the turtleneck. He tossed it into the corner with the jacket. His undershirt followed, and then Garak was on him, sinking his teeth into the base of Julian’s neck. The sharp pain shot down his spine straight to his cock, which was already aching with need. And Julian moaned, loudly and lewdly begging for more. Garak was only too pleased to oblige.

Julian tugged at the belt of Garak’s robe, pushing Garak back onto the bed, trailing kisses down the ridges on his shoulders, his chest, his hips. He took careful note of Garak’s responses, and paid more attention to the sensitive spots near the center of each ridge. Garak was moaning, whining, pressing into his touch. Tangling fingers tightly in Julian’s hair but still letting him set the pattern and pace. When he scraped his teeth against the second ridge that traced Garak’s transverse abdominals, Garak bucked his hips and Julian felt something wet. Julian pressed his palm against the bulge in Garak’s underwear, which was moist and sticky. He would have thought Garak already came, except that Garak squirmed into Julian’s hand and breathed, “Oh, doctor, please.”

“What did I tell you about calling me that?” he teased, lightly running a finger down the outline of Garak’s cock, watching the man squirm in the most delicious way.

The ensuing silence seemed to stretch on as Garak’s hands clawed Julian’s scalp and his breath came in little gasps and pants and moans.

When he finally spoke it was music to the doctor’s ears. “Julian. Please.”

Of course Julian obliged. Garak raised his hips enough to let Julian pull his underwear down. He carefully pulled them off each leg while Garak made little pleading sounds, until finally, _finally_ his cock was in Julian’s hand, hard and dark and soaking wet and _beautiful_. Julian explored gently, probing the firm, slightly springy ridges and the soft scales between them. Rather than being a continuous part of his skin, Garak’s cock appeared to emerge from an opening that looked rather like human labia. The base was nearly dripping with lubricant – to the touch, it felt similar to a human woman’s juices, but licking it off his finger confirmed it tasted very different – smoky and fishy, strange and alien but not unpleasant. It tasted like the ache of longing and wanting, like unfulfilled promise. Garak’s unique musk was intoxicating, he decided, and moved to take him in his mouth, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his need, that ached as much in his chest as between his legs. On its own it wasn’t, but hearing Garak cry out, feeling hands tightly tangle in his hair, feeling the man _quiver_ when Julian swirled his tongue around the shaft – _that_ was exquisite. He sunk his head down to take the entirety in his mouth, suppressing his gag reflex. It was much easier to fit the entire thing in his mouth than a human penis, despite the comparable size, because the tip was tapered rather than blunt, and so he could press his lips against the lips from which Garak’s cock emerged, could lewdly probe at the base to try to taste more of his syrupy juices, to coax more noises from Garak. He had started with gasps, progressed to moans, and since stopped making noises entirely in favor of tensing every muscle in his body and breathing erratically.

After a minute, Julian lifted his head, sucking gently as he went until Garak’s cock slipped from his mouth with a slight pop and a feeling of loss. He took a deep breath and motioned to take the delicious member back into his mouth, but felt Garak’s hands tug his head up so they were face to face. Their lips touched, and Garak wrapped one arm around Julian’s waist, the other around his shoulders, and held Julian to him tightly, clinging to this beautiful wonder he couldn’t quite believe was really there, really kissing him back with such fervor. If he had any doubts, Julian hoped they were dissipated by the utter need he threw into that kiss, all hot lips and wet tongues and little needy whimpers and grunts. His hands settled themselves on Garak’s waist, trapped by the other man’s arms, and he satisfied himself with exploring the transverse abdominal ridges that flared from Garak’s pubic spoon and extended above his hip to his spine in the back. The way Garak bucked his hips at the slightest touch, moaned into Julian’s mouth when he pressed and rubbed, was _very_ encouraging. More encouraging was the pulsing rhythm with which Garak pressed his cock up against the corresponding bulge in Julian’s pants.

“Why aren’t we naked?” Julian murmured, breaking the kiss to press foreheads in a gesture whose intimacy he only suspected.

“You were so, shall I say, _eager_ to get me here, you didn’t give us the chance to finish undressing.”

Julian chuckled. “As I recall,” he began, and gripped tighter at Garak’s sides, causing a sharp intake of breath and reciprocally tightened grip on Julian’s back. “You were just as eager as I was.” He punctuated the statement with a slight press of their groins together, and smothered Garak’s resulting whine in a searing kiss.

“Julian,” Garak murmured softly, lovingly, removing his hand from Julian’s shoulder to stroke his cheek.

Julian squirmed, suddenly hyper-aware of the softness, uncomfortable with how that little gesture pulled him out of the moment. He wanted to hide behind passion, not to be seen by it. And he wanted to have sex that was properly distracting, where he could let go and lose himself; no matter how many young ladies he charmed, they generally expected him to do the work. It was lovely, but it was too conscious. Tonight, with Garak, Julian was just hoping to get fucked. And then Garak had to spoil it by bringing them out of the moment, bringing _tenderness_ into the heat of what he’d wanted to pass off with plausible deniability as mindless passion.

Julian needed to move the situation back to the realm of the sexual, and so he moved to roll onto his side, pulling Garak with him. “This is great and all, but I _need_ you, inside me, _now_.” It wasn’t a lie; he’d been incredibly aroused for quite some time now, and was salivating at the mere thought of being filled by Garak.

Garak smiled, but his eyes continued to blaze with hunger. “Who am I to argue with that?”

Garak got up to let Julian toss his pants and underwear aside, and Julian pulled Garak on top of him. They were lying on the bed, foreheads and noses touching, Julian’s legs wrapped around Garak’s waist, when he realized three things. He hadn’t run an STI panel on Garak (not that he would even know what to look for). He hadn’t brought lube. And he didn’t actually understand how Cardassian sex worked.

The first issue wasn’t much of a problem – Garak didn’t appear to have any significant amount of sexual activity on the station, and nothing affected his health. And even if he had, Julian would be dead before he could face any consequences beyond the easily treatable. Dead…

The second was also unlikely to be an issue – the fluids secreted by human females had a similar texture and consistency to Garak’s and were generally very sufficient to ease coupling, and by that standard Garak was very wet indeed. He reached a hand down, slipped his fingers under the labia to gather fluid – though the noise Garak made in response to that was so very tempting – then he smeared it along Garak’s cock, which he pressed to his entrance.

The third? He was about to find out how Cardassian sex worked. How hard could it be?

“You haven’t done this before, have you?” Julian asked, hoping Garak would have some unlikely experience to guide him.

“With a human? No. Nor with another man, for that matter. Have you?”

“With another man, yes, though not in a while. And you’re the only Cardassian I’ve ever gotten half close to.”

“Do you still want this?” Garak’s eyes searched Julian’s, pleading, even as his body pressed against him, cock pressing into and receding from Julian’s entrance as Garak’s body rose and fell with each jagged breath. Julian’s own cock was rubbing against Garak’s stomach, the contact thankfully taking the edge off how badly he needed to be touched, but not enough to make it okay.

“Yes, I want this, _please_ ,” Julian whined, and then Garak was pressing into him and it was so _much_ that Julian couldn’t think, which was absolutely wonderful. It was tight and hard and after the first inch the ridges on Garak’s cock pressed into weird parts of his entrance. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t hurt. It just felt overwhelming.

Julian started to adjust, found himself ready for more, and began to push himself onto Garak’s cock only to meet with resistance. He opened his eyes – when had he screwed them shut? – and found Garak’s gaze locked on him, normally piercing blue eyes half closed and glazed over but still meeting his. For a moment Julian forgot how to breathe, because this was Garak halfway inside him, this man whose pain cut through to his core, who he’d trust with the last vestiges of his fracturing soul, who had never asked for anything in exchange for bringing intrigue and magic into Julian Bashir’s life.

Julian pulled Garak’s head down into a kiss at the same time Garak thrust the remainder of the way into him in one smooth, if jarring, stroke. Garak swallowed Julian’s cry of shock greedily, kissing back with a demanding urgency that made Julian suspect Garak was just as taken as he was.

Julian felt himself recover from the initial shock of penetration, and Garak began to move inside him, and it was like he was bathed in light. He was reduced to a ball of nerves, moaning and writhing and grasping and squeezing with all he had, never wanting to let Garak go. Each stroke sent fire through his veins: when he hit that little spot that made Julian tremble, when he pressed in even though he was already fully sheathed in Julian’s ass, when he pulled out slowly and it felt so empty until he slid back in with a grunt and the world disappeared around them.

At some point their mouths separated, heads tucked into the other’s neck, panting and kissing and sucking and biting at skin and scales. Their hands similarly clawed at each other with little regard, as the pain of scratches and bites only made the pleasure of their intimate coupling so much sweeter.

They rocked together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. Julian spared a thought to touching himself, helping ease the pressure he felt rising in his balls, but the thought of letting go of Garak with any part of his body was too painful to bear. So he clung tight, swept away by the intensity of his desire and by the pure physical sensation of having Garak’s ridged cock pumping in and out of him at a rate that was absolutely _charming_ and, was he speeding up? It was subtle, but Julian noticed the slight acceleration, and before he knew it Garak was slamming into him, making him cry out with every thrust. He’d heard the rhythmic “ah, ah, ah” of someone being fucked silly before, but only from partners or neighbors, never from himself. And it was so, so much more satisfying from this end, at least as far as he was concerned, being able to just clench his thighs around Garak’s waist and let himself drown in the rhythm, in the sensations of Garak’s cock inside him, Garak’s breath on his neck, Garak’s stomach brushing his cock with every stroke that, oh, he was so close now, and then Garak cried out and buried himself in Julian, his face contorted in an expression of simultaneous agony and ecstasy.

Julian wasn’t done. He hadn’t had enough, needed to be fucked _more_ , but also knew that’s not ever what to say to someone who just finished. So he pulled Garak up to kiss him, lips and tongues playing in a dance that had somehow already become comfortable, as if it was the logical progression of the lunch conversations they’d been practicing for years. This kiss wasn’t hot or desperate like they had been earlier, but still smoldered with a desire that had certainly not been extinguished where it sat in Julian’s gut. When Garak began to move inside him again, he suspected it was far from finished in Garak as well.

Garak was much more vocal the second time, gasping with each stroke, murmuring “oh Julian” and “yes just like that” and “do you like that?” and Julian was too far gone to reply with anything more than moans and affirmative whimpers.

And then Garak shifted his angle slightly and it was just intense enough to be too much. It cut through Julian’s haze of pleasure and he came hard, the world focusing to a pinprick and then the aperture slowly widening to take things in one at a time: the glowing feeling that suffused his body, the corresponding throbbing wetness in his ass that told him Garak came again already, the haze of endorphins that turned the world to roses. Garak kissed Julian’s open mouth, tongues and lips dancing languidly, hands caressing each other in pure contentment.

Reluctantly, Garak slipped out of the warm embrace of Julian’s ass, tucked his penis back in its sheath, and lay on his side facing his friend who was now, he supposed, his lover. The lights were always dim in Garak’s quarters, and all the more flattering for it. The beautiful boy _glowed,_ a goofy wide smile on his face. He was covered in sweat, and semen that had smeared between their entwined bodies. Garak licked it for a taste and found it positively charming – salty and astringent, like Tellarian rum. And so he licked and kissed his way down the doctor’s body, who made little satisfied moans and giggles. He ended by taking his rather deflated member into his mouth. Julian shivered at first, which Garak took as encouragement to redouble his efforts, but then he squirmed and pulled Garak’s head away from his groin, nudging him to meet his eye level.

Julian mumbled sleepily, “s’enough for tonight,” pressed a sloppy kiss to Garak’s lips, and snuggled into Garak’s side. For once Garak wasn’t quite so concerned with hygiene – he already knew they’d both need to wash up and clean the sheets, so did it really matter if they got a little dirtier? Instead he snuggled back into Bashir’s delicious mammalian warmth, kissed the center of his forehead in a gesture that surely humans wouldn’t know the significance of, as an act of utter devotion. Listened to the man’s slow, calm breathing, that of a human with incredibly endearing postcoital trust and relaxation. It appeared the naïve young doctor had fallen asleep in his arms almost immediately – it was nearly 25:00, after all, and Julian had apparently had quite a long day.

Garak resigned himself to letting the man sleep over. He took the time to appreciate the curve of his eyelashes, the fine bone structure of his face, the utter peacefulness that echoed how Garak felt on the inside. He buried his nose in Julian’s wild mane of hair, which smelled so utterly human, spicy and musky and warm. Garak mouthed the little, enormous words he was too cowardly and self protective to act on all these years, but no sound came out.

* * *

Garak felt absolutely wonderful on the inside, but was too messy to sleep, so once his postcoital alertness subsided somewhat he got up, took a quick shower, used the toilet and changed into pajamas.

At some point along the way, he realized he’d fallen into the doctor’s trap. Surely there was no way he returned the passion and devotion that Garak, shrouded in endorphins, had been so very eager to give. He had been so stupid and vulnerable! Had they engaged in pillow talk, Garak probably would have even confessed to the dear boy that he found him enchantingly beautiful, that he would die for him a hundred times over, that he had dreamed of this very night more than he dared admit. His only saving grace was that Bashir had gone straight to sleep before Garak had a chance to embarrass himself with any more grand romantic gestures.

Garak was a romantic, and he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself. He’d carved out a space in his all too empty heart for the young doctor the day they met. Over the years since, that space in his heart became an altar, filled with stolen touches, twinkling gazes, and innuendo by the metric ton. He drew strength from this treasured sanctuary every morning, when he stepped out into the chill of a lonely exile. The caress of his love gave him the hope and faith to continue to greet each day with good cheer.

Garak was never one to take love lightly. He would die, would kill, would live for Julian, even before he had known the softness of his lips and the sweetness of his body. And he was so sweet, attentive and responsive and warm. Soft. Strong. And how he had blossomed. His whimpers were sure to play in Garak’s dreams for years.

Human men, particularly those as devastatingly handsome as his dear doctor, were notoriously adept at decoupling sex from emotional entanglements.

The only possible, realistic explanation was that Bashir saw this as a mere casual liaison. In the years they’d known each other, the doctor had never shown any clear romantic inclinations to Garak, or to men in general. From a human standpoint, whatever dubious signs the doctor had given were better explained by duty and friendship than romantic interest.

Sure, he was sexually interested, but Garak knew he would never be satisfied with just sex.

He could already feel himself slipping toward the point of no return, and determined not to get feelings any more involved than _absolutely_ necessary.

Not that they weren’t both already hopelessly involved. He felt sick to his stomach at letting Julian use him like that - the nerve! - and was slow to fall asleep.

If the doctor didn’t know, all the better, or so he’d believed. He knew a thing or two about rejection. Telling Julian the truth would not, could never set Garak free from the torturously sweet prison Julian unknowingly kept him in. But it might just turn that sweetness bitter, and that of all things would not be acceptable.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all comments are welcome and cherished, including but not limited to: favorite lines, personal anecdotes, constructive criticism, suggestions for warning tags I missed, songs that seem relevant to the story, cursing me for ruining your life, and "AAAAAAA". If you want to try to finish this story, call me, we'll share notes.


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